


bio-exorcism

by aegious



Category: IDOLiSH7 (Video Game)
Genre: Ghosts, M/M, Multi, Non-Idol AU, it doesn't count as major character death if they're ghosts and it happened 200 years ago
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:27:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23966131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aegious/pseuds/aegious
Summary: Two voices laugh in an eerie harmony, but Mitsuki has long since given up on trying to figure out where they’re coming from. They’ll show up eventually.The room chills suddenly, and Mitsuki rolls his eyes, not bothering to look up when Nagi appears in front of him, his expensive leather shoes not even stirring the sawdust under him as he taps his foot. “Oh, Yamato, he is still here.”“The tile isn’t gonna lay itself,” Mitsuki grumbles, dipping his trowel into the bucket of grout. “And you already chased away my help.”
Relationships: Izumi Mitsuki/Nikaidou Yamato/Rokuya Nagi
Comments: 1
Kudos: 25





	bio-exorcism

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Arghnon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arghnon/gifts).



> [marsh](https://twitter.com/marsaysays) commissioned me to write some of her ghost au, and it was honestly so much fun to develop it and write it alongside her! this concept deserves a longfic and a sequel that's _also_ a longfic lol
> 
> for the record, nagi was a dandy prince from northmare who fled to japan circa 1830 or so, and yamato was the son of a high-ranking samurai who ran away from home. mitsuki just wants to open his dream restaurant lmao

The trowel’s moved again, for the third time this morning.

Mitsuki sighs, runs a hand through his sweaty hair. Renovating this building on his own is hard enough; this is just ridiculous.

He crawls through the piles of sawdust on the half-tiled floor and snatches the trowel before they can move it again. “Seriously, guys,” he calls into the empty room, knowing without a doubt that they can hear him, “it’s not funny.”

He fears the day when they figure out how to move the handsaw.

Two voices laugh in an eerie harmony, but Mitsuki has long since given up on trying to figure out where they’re coming from. They’ll show up eventually.

The room chills suddenly, and Mitsuki rolls his eyes, not bothering to look up when Nagi appears in front of him, his expensive leather shoes not even stirring the sawdust under him as he taps his foot. “Oh, Yamato, he is still here.”

“The tile isn’t gonna lay itself,” Mitsuki grumbles, dipping his trowel into the bucket of grout. “And you already chased away my help.”

Nagi breathes out a heavy sigh, and Mitsuki decides he doesn’t want to think about the logistics of that one. “It is like he isn’t even scared of us.”

Another chill runs down Mitsuki’s back, and there comes a long, wailing moan from behind him. It’s haunting and truly horrific, and Mitsuki’s breath catches in his throat as he feels ghostly fingers creeping up his spine. “Cut it out, Yamato-san. It’s just boring at this point.”

The hand falls off of him, and Yamato falls to the floor next to him, the bucket of grout protruding through his belly. Truthfully, the only reason Mitsuki knows this is Yamato is because he and Nagi are the only ghosts in this building—he hopes.

He’s in a ragged, dirty dress, claw marks and bloodstains running up and down his arms and legs. His hair, long and black and stringy, covers his face even as he lays defeated on the unfinished floor.

 _“The Ring,_ Yamato-san?” Mitsuki quirks up an eyebrow. “Really?”

In a flash he’s back to normal, kimono draped gently over Mitsuki’s thigh, which speaks volumes to how uncomfortably close he is right now. “Your modern movies aren’t all bad, you know.”

He tries his best to ignore the way Yamato’s hand is resting on his leg, the way he can feel it despite the fact that he barely even _exists._ “Quit spying on my movie nights.”

“Then Mitsuki, you should just invite us next time!” Nagi drops to the floor and fiddles with the stack of tile. He huffs when his hand goes right through it. “That way, we won’t have to spy on you.”

“That’s not how it’s supposed to work!” Mitsuki exclaims, shooing Nagi’s hand away from the tile. “This is _my_ restaurant. Or—or it will be, after I finish the renovations. That means you guys are trespassing.”

“Technically, we were here first,” comes Yamato’s lazy drawl.

“You’re dead!”

“That changes nothing.”

Mitsuki clenches the trowel more tightly in his fist. “I should have listened when the realtor told me this place was haunted.”

“We _have_ been trying to scare you away, Mitsu,” Yamato points out. His fingers toy with the hem of his kimono, deep greens layered on top of each other. It’s nothing spectacular, but it looks comfortable and warm. Mitsuki resists the urge to ask if ghosts can even get cold.

“Do you give nicknames to all the humans who buy this place?” he asks instead.

Nagi’s impossibly blue eyes sparkle in light that can’t possibly refract off of them. “You are the first human who will talk to us!”

“In a hundred years?”

“More like two hundred.” Yamato snorts a short laugh. “Well, some exorcists came by a few years back. I don’t think they count, though.”

Mitsuki can see the results of that shoddy exorcism right in front of him, concentrating too hard on making the tub of grout float in midair. “Well, you’re not gonna scare me away.”

“I’m starting to think that’s true,” Yamato grumbles. “Humans are so full of themselves.”

“Wh—?” Mitsuki puffs up, fists clenched as if it wouldn’t go straight through Yamato’s incorporeal body and straight into the wet tile below. “You were human too!”

“Past tense, Mitsu.” Yamato reaches up with one hand and pats his cheek. “Past tense.”

He flinches away. The touch is like an ice cube, cold and slimy and barely there, gliding across his skin without any friction. “Cut it out.”

“Oh, Yamato, you are much better at that than me,” Nagi laments. He reaches out, too, cups Mitsuki’s face in his hand. The feeling is fainter, and if Mitsuki stares hard enough, he can see light streaming through his arm, illuminating the sleeve of his dark tailcoat seemingly from the inside out.

“Because you always make me do the dirty work.” Yamato’s fingers walk across Mitsuki’s face, as if he’s nothing more than a table for them. He curls the fingers around Nagi’s hand and lets their arms fall down onto Mitsuki’s lap. When Yamato squeezes the hand, skin indenting so naturally under the light pressure, Mitsuki almost forgets that they’re dead.

“You are a much better actor,” is Nagi’s response. It comes out soft, gentle, and Mitsuki’s pulse races as he witnesses this rare scene between them.

It’s a startling contrast from when they’re trying to scare him away.

“Why don’t you two go be lovey dovey somewhere else?” Mitsuki grumbles, fighting to keep his breathing even. “You’re distracting me.”

“Oh, are we?” Nagi leans in close to Mitsuki’s face, eyes wide and innocent. “Isn’t that what we’re supposed to be doing, though?”

Yamato’s laugh is breathy and light, despite the sarcasm laced within it. “Did you already forget, Nagi?”

“It’s been a month,” Mitsuki reminds them. “You should just give up. I’m gonna open this restaurant one way or another, and I’m not going to let two dumb ghosts stop me.”

“But it’s so much fun seeing your reactions, Mitsuki!” Nagi claps his hands together, taking Yamato’s with him. Mitsuki isn’t sure when Yamato moved from his side, but now he’s kneeling next to Nagi, kimono tucked neatly under him. Their hands remain laced together on Nagi’s lap.

“Should I ignore you, then…?” he guesses, reaching again for the grout. He has to lay the tile before he goes home tonight, or he’ll fall behind schedule. Not that Nagi and Yamato care about that.

Nagi gasps, dramatic and over the top as usual. “You can’t ignore us!”

“I can if it means you’ll leave me alone.” His words feel hollow even to himself, but he grits his teeth and pushes through, smearing the grout across the concrete with the trowel.

“Mitsu’s so diligent, huh…” Yamato observes. “Doesn’t even care that there are two ghosts living in his fancy new restaurant.”

Mitsuki keeps working. “I have bigger things to worry about, like loan repayments.”

“Oh!” Nagi exclaims. “I thought you were ignoring us!”

“Shit.” So much for that plan. He slathers more grout across the concrete and sets another tile down, wiping his brow with his arm as he finishes. He’s sweating far too much for early spring, but he hasn’t installed a fan yet, so he’s practically boiling as he works.

He rolls up the sleeves of his T-shirt and resolves to go out and buy a fan first thing tomorrow.

An admittedly refreshing icy chill runs down his arm, and Mitsuki jumps in surprise.

Yamato is trailing his fingers over Mitsuki’s sweaty biceps, a low hum in his throat. “You have such nice muscles. How are you still single?”

Mitsuki’s face prickles with heat. “Sh–shut up! That’s none of your business.” He swats at the incorporeal hand, but his fingers fall right through the space where there should be solid flesh.

Yamato waves at Nagi, beckoning him over. “Nagi, c’mere, you gotta feel these.”

“He does not!” Mitsuki protests. “You don’t, either!”

Nagi chuckles, light-hearted and pretty. “Mitsuki is cute when he’s angry!”

Mitsuki clenches his fists because he still hasn’t learned. “What did you say?”

“You’re very cute!” Nagi repeats, leaning toward Mitsuki with a broad, blinding smile on his face. “Like a fluffy orange bunny.”

Yamato nods. “Mhm, You’re right. I can definitely see it.”

He gropes Mitsuki’s bicep again, and Mitsuki can’t help the embarrassing squeak that escapes his lips. Yamato throws his head back and laughs, the sound echoing off the peeling walls and replaying in Mitsuki’s head long after it dies.

Nagi’s grin falls into a pout. “I would like to pet him, but I am no good at handling things.”

“Here,” Yamato says, reaching out a hand for Nagi to take. “I’ll help you.”

Mitsuki doesn't quite understand why he doesn't move when Yamato guides Nagi’s hand along his arm, to his shoulder, across his collarbone. It’s a different sensation than Yamato’s touch, more like a winter wind than an icy trail. But it feels nice all the same.

“You have to concentrate, see? Focus on the thing you’re touching.”

“Oh…” Nagi’s eyes are wide with wonder as the pads of his fingers connect with the fabric of Mitsuki’s shirt. “It’s easier when you do it.”

“I’m not doing anything.” To prove his point, Yamato lifts his hand as Nagi continues exploring Mitsuki’s chest, childlike curiosity guiding his path.

“Mitsuki is the first person I have touched in over two hundred years,” Nagi says, an impossible breath blowing out of his mouth and chilling Mitsuki’s sweat-slicked skin.

“Other than me,” Yamato interjects.

“But of course.”

Mitsuki tries not to think about why he won’t move, even as Nagi’s touch becomes more real. He tries not to think about why he doesn’t dislike the idea of being the only other person Nagi has touched, can touch. He swallows, following Nagi’s fingers with his eyes, only glancing back at Yamato as if to check if he’s going to join in, as if he _wants_ to feel that slimy, weird, refreshing touch on his hot skin.

“I think he likes this, Nagi.”

Yamato’s chuckle breaks the trance Mitsuki had found himself in, and he jumps away, just out of reach of Nagi’s outstretched arm. He turns away so he can’t see Nagi’s frown. “I said to cut it out!”

He can feel his face burning hotter than the stifling heat inside the building as Yamato’s laughter turns into full-on chortles, delighted hiccups and triumphant whoops. He tries not to pay attention to it, tries not to listen too closely out of fear he might want to hear more. Instead, he pulls out his phone, fumbling with the screen until a music app opens.

He taps frantically at the screen until something, anything, starts playing. “I’m ignoring you now.”

Laughter floats above the gentle notes of a spring ballad, and Mitsuki does his best to ignore them and get back to work. After all, there’s still so much to do before he can open up his restaurant.

“Oh, Yamato, I love this song,” Nagi gushes.

Yamato chuckles softly, gently. “You don’t even know it.”

“That’s the best part! Come on, come on!”

Yamato makes an inhuman sound as he’s pulled up, and perhaps that’s quite fitting for a ghost. Nagi’s solid leather shoes don’t make a sound as he glides across the floor, never even disturbing the wet grout. Mitsuki can see their feet shuffling about in his peripheral vision, dancing some kind of whimsical waltz to the upbeat pop song echoing in the empty room.

He grips the trowel harder, spreads the grout on thicker, and lays the next tile down. He has to get this done today, or…

His thoughts trail off when he lifts his gaze. Nagi and Yamato are still dancing, Nagi pulling Yamato across the floor with steady, practiced movements. Yamato’s hand rests lightly on his shoulder, Nagi’s arm curled around Yamato’s waist. Holding him close.

Even though Mitsuki knows they have hundreds of years of practice under their belts, he can’t help but be impressed at how gracefully they move.

Nagi pulls Yamato in closer to him, his eyes sparkling as he watches him, only him. He dips his head low, lips against Yamato’s cheek, never once pausing their dance.

They’re entirely caught up in their own world now, a world that, perhaps, no longer exists.

As they turn, Mitsuki sees a flash of a soft smile on Yamato’s lips, one Mitsuki has never seen before. It’s open and warm, so different from his usual sarcastic self.

They’re beautiful, Mitsuki thinks as a midday sunbeam illuminates them in a golden halo that casts no shadow. Yamato’s kimono flares out as he spins; Nagi’s practiced movements carry him as if he were weightless.

A certain warmth spreads throughout Mitsuki’s body from the center of his chest, all the way up his neck and all the way down to his fingertips, and he finds he can’t look away, eyes glued to their every motion, to their every subtle glance and smile.

He realizes now that he was never going to finish his work today. He realizes that he probably won’t finish his work tomorrow, either, if these two have any say in it. And he realizes, with much less horror than he feels appropriate, that he’s utterly, completely fucked.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on [twitter!](https://twitter.com/aegious)


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